Carnal Creatures by Caisele
by MeetTheMateContest
Summary: Men are logical, virtuous, and honourable, having been blessed by God to be the superior sex. Women, on the other hand, are carnal creatures, and not to be trusted. –Anonymous. Victorian era AU. Rated for sex and content.


**Title:** Carnal Creatures

 **Summary:** Men are logical, virtuous, and honourable, having been blessed by God to be the superior sex. Women, on the other hand, are carnal creatures, and not to be trusted. –Anonymous. Victorian era AU. Rated for sex and content.

 **Pairing:** Edward/Bella

 **Rating:** M

 **Word count:** 4,710

* * *

 **Carnal Creatures**

 **Act I**

The new house needs a lot of cleaning. It is a cozy little one-roomed hut, and it reminds Bella of her family's old farmhouse. The wooden beams are high and the floor is hard stone. She likes the sound of the pot bubbling over the fireplace, and how nice and toasty the hut gets as her soup cooks. There isn't a proper stove, or proper chairs, but James found an old but sturdy crate by the road earlier and hammered some planks onto the back as a makeshift bench, and he found a little wooden stool for her. It is good enough for now. They've only arrived yesterday. In fact, she hasn't even put curtains up on the windows yet.

The big window faces east, out of which she can see a lone figure trampling down the winding dirt road that leads up to the school. That must be James, coming back from his meeting with Mr. Jefferson.

Mr. Jefferson is the dean of Forks Preparatory School. He used to know James's father, and was doing his old friend a favor by taking James in as the school's new groundskeeper. Forks is a boys' school for the somewhat well-to-do. Most of the boys here are military brats, and have a hard time doing their proper readings, or learning their letters. Old Lord Forks built the school in the middle of the moors because he thought the boys could do without distractions around. But the boys found their own distraction. Bella saw two lanky kids bounding away from the hut when she went out back earlier to weed the garden.

She heard from James earlier that the boys like to sneak off to La Push nearby. La Push is two streets of cutesy villas with pointed roofs, a smattering of family-owned businesses and a pub. That's enough to entice the boys of Forks to cross the moors in the dead of the night. Thing is, the moors are dangerously dark at night. The only way to La Push is to follow the dirt road – the one that passes right by the hut.

Mr. Jefferson calls James a groundskeeper, but he's more of a gatekeeper than anything else.

James is a brute.

Bella's father owed him too many bags of coins to count, so at the tender age of fifteen, Bella was pawned off to square the debt. She remembers being washed and powdered from her forehead down to her ankles, and led into a rickety carriage. Her mother waved her goodbye, and she waved back hesitantly, wondering if she would be back in time for supper. She never saw her father's farm again.

James was working in a factory in Milltown back then, and she was sent to live in his cramped, dirty apartment. She cried herself to sleep almost every night for the first month. James is a bear of a man twice Bella's age. He had hair everywhere except for his head. Bella calls him "sir" and he calls her whatever he likes. He used to work half the day, drinks away the other half, and is always foul.

Four years she spent in that little apartment, until the town butcher went and complained to the factory foreman that James had slept with his wife.

The butcher was an important man in the town, because he was the only butcher. If anyone wanted meat for dinner, they had better tread lightly around him. But not James. Just last week Tuesday, Bella was marched into the town square, sandwiched between two solemn-faced men. There was a crowd circled around the grim-faced foreman and the hulking frame of her husband. The foreman told James he had done wrong, and he needed to pay the penance.

James wasn't having it. Bella didn't catch most of what the men were saying, they were shouting over each other. The butcher had one pudgy finger pointed straight at James's nose and another at Bella as she was pushed to the front of the crowd. "How'd you like me fucking your wife?" he shouted, a string of saliva dribbling down his fat lips.

"You can fuck her right now!" James shouted back.

Bella had never felt more humiliated in her life, as the men hooted and jostled her.

"Do it!" someone roared.

"C'mere Mrs. James!" someone else yelled.

"Stop this!" the foreman screeched over them all. "For shame! We have laws. We have rules. We have a pastor just up the street, don't nobody touch her!"

The men quieted down and the foreman stood in the middle of the milling crowd. "James, you will leave Milltown. You will take your sorry wife with you, and you better not come back."

And that was how Bella was packed onto another rickety carriage, and left her home a second time.

The front door swings open, and the metal bolts strain against the heavy wood. Bella is pulled out of her reverie as James stomps his feet on the threshold, dislodging the mud from the bottom of his boots. Bella watches as he strides in, sniffing. "No food?"

Bella motions towards fireplace. "The soup is almost ready."

She turns her back to him, and goes back to digging through their only trunk, looking for something to cover the windows for tonight. The moors are empty, mostly, but for decency's sake, it's better to have some curtains than none.

Bella finds her old apron and holds it up in her hands. It won't cover the whole window, but until she can get to La Push and pick out some fabric, this is the only thing she can spare. With James spending almost all his money on his drinks, Bella's allowance is pitiful, and she only has two dresses to wear.

"Take the soup off the fire. Jefferson wants us to go up to the school for supper," James rumbles behind her, "says he wants to introduce the new staffs. That'll be us."

Bella takes off her shoes and stands on the bed to pin the curtains up. "Well, that's you, sir. I don't think I'm a staff."

"You're going," James says, and that is the final word.

Bella bites her tongue and reaches down for the pins she left earlier on the windowsill. She can already imagine the teachers and masters in their nicest frocks, and best dinner jackets, sitting across the table from James in his hairy wools, and Bella in her old, grey smock. Maybe she will pretend to have a stomach ache, or fall into a faint, and James will let her stay home.

She doesn't notice that James has come up behind her until he put his hands on her hips. She freezes. "You grew fat since the baby," James says.

Bella was pregnant within the first year of their marriage, but lost the baby a few weeks in. She had felt sorry for the child, but was relieved that it didn't come. She wouldn't have known what to do with a baby, and was frightened by all the blood that came out of her when it had gone.

"Yes, sir," Bella replies lightly, "I think I did."

"Your arms used to be sticks," James says, tugging at the lacing on the back of her dress. Bella stands frigid, apprehending. "Looked like a snowman, you did, with those tits of yours," James snickers, "But you're grown into them."

He loosens the strings and pulls her dress down her shoulders. It's warm in the hut, but Bella has goosebumps and her hair is standing on its end. James pulls her into him, and she sits on the bed, arms at her side, as James reaches to cup her breasts in his bear-like palms. He lowers his lips to her neck, his bristly, unshaved chin ticking her shoulder. "You got a woman's body now," James breathes. "What are you this year? Nineteen?"

"Yes, sir," Bella replies stiffly. Her dress is pooled at her waist and James is twisting her nipples. Bella stares at the apron curtain that has fallen over her feet, unmoving.

"You could prop these up," James says, rough finger tips digging into her soft skin, "a young girl like you. Don't have to dress like an old woman."

Even in her ugly smocks, Bella used to draw unwanted attention in Milltown. The factory men saw her as a woman before James ever did. They've hollered at her, stepped on her hem as she passed them, and the braver ones even ran up and put their hands on her. Then there was that one time outside the apartment, where one of the young men cornered her.

Bella closes her eyes.

She can hear James rustling about, untying his trousers. "Won't we be late for the supper?" Bella says, quickly.

James grabs her shoulder and spins her around. He presses his bulge against her arm. "What are you going to do about this then?" His voice is rough, and Bella knows that tone all too well.

Bella reaches up and pulls open the front of his britches. She takes his engorged member in her hands and does what she knows. Sliding her palms over the glistening head, fingers entangled in the thick black hair around the base of his member.

"What's a wife for," James grumbles as she works her hands, "if you can't stick them where you should?"

She finishes him quickly, and he sprays his seed between her bare breasts. "Wear the other dress," James says.

Bella dresses quickly. As she pulls off her grey smock, she sees white drips of James on the collar. He wouldn't let her wipe it off. "Just don't wear it," he tells her impatiently, "'s not that cold. Just put that damn dress on, woman."

Bella begrudging tugs on her soft, cotton dress. It's so faded that the yellow looks more like cream. She laces up her walking boots and steps outside, waiting for James by the door, shivering a little as the wind breezes past. It's darker now, looks like seven in the evening

Out of the corner of her eye she sees some movement. Bella turns in time to see dark shapes disappearing into the foliage south of her garden. Bella wraps her arms around her chest and looks towards the east window of the hut. The room is well lit from the inside, from here she can almost seen the spoon she left on the kitchen table. Bella stares into the foliage, sudden unease coiling in the pit of her abdomen.

Up through the thicket that mapped the border of the school grounds and around the garden of wildflowers, Bella and James are led up the side of the school. It is tall and built like a fortress. When the sun is up, Forks's towers could cast a shadow hundreds of feet long, but now, the shadow of the evening has descended over the whole of the grounds.

Bella and James enter through the servants' entrance. James spares a moment to huff about that, then they are swept up a grand circular staircase, and into Mr. Jefferson's office.

He calls it an office, but to Bella it is closer to an apartment. It is a grand suite filled with bookshelves teetering with dusty tomes. There are three rooms set aside for his living, a bedroom, a sitting room, and the dining room, in which the other dinner guests have already gathered. There is a long oaken table set with tall red candles on gleaming stands, and silk cushions set upon the chairs. The wine glasses are filled, the bread basket is half empty, and engaged chatter filled the room, only lulling as James and Bella enters.

"Here they are!" Mr. Jefferson greets, raising his glass.

He is short, thin man with small, dark eyes, and a mustache too large for his lips. He is always gloved and clutching at his silken handkerchief. He may have been a friend of the elder James, but he was really closer in age to the younger.

"Sorry for the tardiness," James sniffs, glancing sideways at Bella. Mr. Jefferson smiles and waves his gloved hands.

Near the head of the table, where Mr. Jefferson is seated as the host, there is a man in clergy's black, Father Carlisle Cullen, introduced as the school priest. He looks decidedly uncomfortable sitting across the voluptuous French teacher, Mme Poussard, who Mr. Jefferson calls Victoria. He is quickly corrected. "It's Victoire, _cherie_." Strewn almost carelessly across the back of her chair is a sleek fur coat, with feathers as thick and long as her incredible eyelashes. She is wearing a bright crimson gown that brings out the red in her hair and dips a little lower than conventional for the conservative sensibilities Bella was raised with. She has more gold on her neck and wrists than Bella has ever seen on a person.

Next to the chamberlain sits a very handsome man, whose straight back, averted gaze, and noble bearing makes Bella uneasy. He has russet hair coiffed according to the modern fashion, and flashing green eyes that looks as if they were painted by an old master. Mr. Jefferson introduces him as Dr. Edward Masen, the youngest resident doctor Forks has ever had. He is a Forks grad from an extended family full of Forks alumni. Mr. Jefferson was very proud of the fact that the young doctor's father, Masen Senior, is on the board of trustees of the school.

"Dr. Masen was a legacy during his time here. A top student, of course, top of his class, and Head Boy too," Mr. Jefferson says enthusiastically. "And we are very lucky to have him back."

The doctor seems less thrilled. "Indeed," he replies dryly, fingering the stem of his glass. Bella notes the silk threads in the fabric of his vest and how the soft candlelight shimmers as it flickers off the pocket watch as the doctor checks the hour, as if he could not wait to leave. It doesn't escape Bella that this pocket watch, encrusted with diamonds in the cold platinum, could pay three years of rent on her old apartment, and more.

"You will be glad to hear, Dr. Masen, that Mr. James will begin his groundskeeping duties starting tomorrow," Mr. Jefferson smiles at Bella. "The good doctor had to chase the boys through the moors in the dead of night on two occasions now already."

Bella nods politely, too nervous to do anything else. Masen glances towards where she stands with James, expressionless, before turning back to his drink. His eyes meet Mme Poussard's over the rim of his glass. She snorts, her lashes flitting on her cheeks, and the doctor smiles into his glass.

Bella smoothes down the soft, worn cotton of her skirts, and feels herself going red in the face.

Soon she is seated next to James, trying her best not to look at the doctor or the chamberlain, afraid that she might cry if she sees how they are sneering at her. James, on the other hand, is unbothered by it all, or just plain unaware, and he strikes up conversation with the Mme. He makes her laugh, and her lashes flutter like butterfly wings.

Bella copies Mme, eating only when she does, and using the fork or spoon she chooses, not wanting to embarrass herself if she gets it wrong, and shows just how uncultured she is.

From watching the Mme, Bella sees how she pouts flirtatiously and winks incessantly as she talks to the young doctor. He listens politely and smiles when he should, but the gesture never reaches his eyes. He reminds Bella of the stony statues of Greek gods that decorate the fountains in Milltown. He is just as impossibly beautiful, and probably has a heart that is just as hard as the white polished stone.

As the desserts are served, Mr. Jefferson picks up his wine and twirls it between his fingers. Bella has lost count of how many glasses he's had, but a small crate is sitting in the corner of the room, filled with empty bottles, and the butler has gone to fetch some brandy.

"It has been more lawless with each passing year," Mr. Jefferson says, speaking significantly slower than he did when they first sat down. "I've never seen boys this rowdy in all my years. I hardly know what to do."

"They need discipline," James says roughly. He's had much more than his fair share of the wine, and the telltale slur is starting to distort his words. "They need whippings, like the old days."

Mme Poussard giggles and pats his large hands. James seems pleased by that. He continues, "In the city we used to string up the urchins that lifted our purses, and we used to whip them in the square."

Mr. Jefferson forces out a short laugh. "But these are not urchins, my good man."

"If I may remind you, Mr. Jefferson," Masen says evenly, "I had suggested bringing in guard dogs to watch the gates. There are many good kennels in the country surrounding these parts."

"Well, we won't be needing those now anyways," Mr. Jefferson replies.

"It's 'cos I'm here now, aren't I?" James is getting flushed and sweaty from the drinks. "Is that what you mean? Are you calling me a dog?"

Mr. Jefferson is taken aback. "I beg your pardon–?"

"Have you found yourself a dog to look after your stinking moors, hm?" James is yelling now. "Are you calling my wife a bitch too?"

Bella flinches, feeling her face burning up. Mr. Jefferson quickly calls for the brandy.

"My good man, that is surely a misunderstanding. I would never insult you, not after all your father has done for me. Come, come, have some brandy. It's strong mind-you, ages old…here, that's it."

The Mme smiles behind her hands. Bella glances over at Edward Masen. His brow is furrowed and he is actively trying to not to look down Bella's end of the table, appearing as if he is disgusted by the entire exchange.

Bella keeps her gaze upon her plate, where ice cream has been served. The conversation resumes as James falls silent, knocking back the brandy in one shot. Bella notices the Mme does not touch the ice cream, so Bella decides to forgo it as well. She has seen it, but has never tried it, because she could never afford to. It will turn the night for the worse if she has a bad reaction and throws up.

For the rest of supper, Dr. Masen does not look in James or Bella's direction even once. Since the earlier outburst, a wrinkle remains upon his perfect nose, and his full lips are decidedly turned down at the corners. He has even pushed away from the table, as if he was sitting across from lepers.

To Bella's relief, the doctor excuses himself shortly after, stating that his has business early in the morning and must rest. He picks up his jacket and walks around the table to the door, draping it across his shoulders. As he passes by Bella, the tails of the coat inadvertently whip her in the face.

Bella touches her cheeks, feeling as if her skin has been burned, as the door resounds with a hollow thud upon his heel. She can't be sure if he hadn't noticed in his haste, or if he had meant to do it.

Either way, she feels tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She takes a deep breath and prays that no one else noticed anything.

James is getting loud and drunk, laughing with Mr. Jefferson, who is also very pink in the face. His black eyes flicker sideways once every so often towards Bella. Out of politeness, she gives him a small smile. He tips his head at her as he laughs at something James says.

Father Carlisle is tasked by Mr. Jefferson with escorting Mme Poussard back to her rooms, looking unhappy with the assignment. She leans against the elderly man heavily, stroking his arm. The chamberlain gives her a stony look, and bids them all good night.

Bella takes the cue and stands to go. "Thank you, Mr. Jefferson, for your welcome. I think…" she trails off and gestures awkwardly at James, who is sitting, unmoving now, with his eyes half-closed, and mouth half-open, "we should go."

Mr. Jefferson laughs. "Nonsense! Stay, stay, I beg of you."

James starts from his coma-like state. "Stay, woman!" He pulls her roughly onto his lap.

"Stop!" Bella protests, blushing again, and hoping Mr. Jefferson will be too drunk to remember this tomorrow morning. She tries to push James away, but he is too strong.

He reaches around and throws her sideways across his lap. Bella is red-faced, and protesting silently, elbowing him in the ribs. But James feels nothing, senses dulled by the drink. He laughs and holds her down with one well-placed arm, and begins to spank her with his free hand.

"Stop!" Bella cries, kicking and pushing, trying to get back up. James and Mr. Jefferson are both laughing, terribly drunk. Bella is near tears, as James smacks her bottom loudly, heartily enjoying himself.

"A child, a child!" Mr. Jefferson exclaims, slurring, raising his glass and sloshing brandy everywhere. "Discipline! Whip them!"

James stops and leans into Mr. Jefferson. Bella takes this opportunity to wrestle out of his grasp, retreating to the other end of the table, truly humiliated. Her only consolation is the fact that Edward Masen hadn't witnessed this disgrace, although she isn't sure if his opinion of her could be any lower than it probably already is.

"She is half my age," James tells Mr. Jefferson, "but she dresses like my old mum."

"Ah!" Mr. Jefferson stands. "My ex-wife left her dresses when she…" he wiggles his fingers like they are wings, "the girl…your pretty girl…she can have it."

"Bloody good!" James roars.

Bella shrinks in her corner and shakes her head furiously. "No, Mr. Jefferson, I have no need of such dresses."

The dean stumbles towards her and grasps Bella's small hands in his gloved ones. "Try it on my dear," his breath stinks of alcohol, "you will look so ravishing."

Bella protests as much as she can but Mr. Jefferson is a lot stronger than he looks. "Come!" he leads Bella to his wardrobe, and James follows, unsteady on his feet, looking like a bear that has just learned to walk on its hind legs.

The wardrobe is almost as big as the entirety of the old London apartment Bella left behind not so long ago. Mr. Jefferson could open a store, Bella thinks, with a collection this size. But it feels like charity, and it feels like pity.

"I cannot," Bella says firmly, trying to slip her hands from Mr. Jefferson's hold.

James reaches out with one of his shovel-like hands and seizes a handful of the back of Bella's frock. She whimpers as she is wrenched backwards into him. "Strip," he says lowly, and then pushes her into the wardrobe. Mr. Jefferson shuts the door behind her.

There is a velvet dress laid out on an ottoman in the centre of the room. It is green like emeralds, with a slimming bodice, and sensuously figure-hugging. Outside, James pounds on the door, "Quickly!"

Bella bites her lip, uncertain. She touches the sleeve of the dress and feels the fabric slipping through her fingers. It will be the most glamorous thing she will ever wear in her life, she is sure of that.

Bella hesitates for a moment, torn between temptation and good sense. She gives in.

The dress looks scandalous on her. The bodice is tight, too small for her breasts. She couldn't tie the lacings in the back. Mr. Jefferson's ex-wife must have been unhealthily thin. Bella cups her hands over her breasts, threatening to spill over the top of the bodice lace. Her braided hair has slipped from their pins earlier, and two long strands rest upon her shoulder.

The emerald brings out a hue of deep sensual chestnut in Bella's usually boring brown hair that she didn't know she had. She skims her fingers down the side of her hip, stroking the soft velvet, and feeling her stomach tighten. She's never felt like this before. She feels beautiful.

What if she had walked into the dining room in this dress tonight? Dr. Masen would glance over as he did, and his eyes would stay, like fish that have found the hook at the end of the worm, and would he smile at her, as he had smiled at Mme. Poussard?

If Bella could curl her hair, or if she had necklaces with pendants of gold, like the Mme, resting between her breasts, or if she had eyelashes like feathers and a laugh like clinking glass…

"Lovely."

Bella jumps, spinning around. She feels her face reddening, imagining how long Mr. Jefferson must have stood there for, watching her wrapping her arms around herself, running her hands up and down her sides…

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jefferson," Bella says hastily, trying to tie the laces in her back, "forgive my indecency. I am too fat for such a dress."

"No," Mr. Jefferson says softly, his eyes are warm, and his smile is kind, "you are perfect. My wife was sick much of her life, and thin as a twig. You have a real woman's body. Do you know how many noble ladies would be envious of your figure and your darling face?"

Bella could not help but smile a little to herself, looking down at the carpet.

Mr. Jefferson lifts Bella's fallen strands of hair and meets her eye. His dark eyes have a look in them that Bella cannot comprehend, and his moustache curls up as he smiles widely. "Keep this dress," he says quietly and clearly, as if he isn't drunk at all, "it is truly gorgeous, befitting you."

It might have been his gloves, his manner, and that courteousness – Bella starts to think that she has met a true gentleman.

Then he kisses her.

Bella freezes. Mr. Jefferson tastes like strong liquor and shaky breaths. He embraces Bella, whiskers pricking her lips, and sticks his tongue in her mouth, lapping at her like a dog. Bella stands there rigidly, shocked. Her mind is blank with shock.

Mr. Jefferson breaks away, strings of saliva dripping from his moustache, and trails kisses down Bella's neck. At the bulge of her breasts, he plants a loud, wet kiss.

Bella squeals and snaps out of her trance, pushing Mr. Jefferson away with all her might.

The old gentleman stumbles backwards two steps and reaches for her again. "Do not fret, my dear, your husband is out cold. Your indiscretions are safe with me."

Bella looks at Mr. Jefferson, aghast. "My indiscretions? What about yours?"

Mr. Jefferson grins. "You are a married woman, Mrs. James. You are the temptress, and I am your bewitched victim."

"I am no temptress! You assaulted me!" Bella cries.

"You sighed with pleasure when I kissed your breasts," Mr. Jefferson counters. "Come, my dear, cast away your mask of virtuousness, for I know what you truly are."

She swats at his hand. "Away from me, Mr. Jefferson!"

Bella side steps him as he tries to block her way. She rushes out the wardrobe, almost tripping over James, who is splayed on the ground, passed out.

As she pushes open the heavy oak doors of Mr. Jefferson's office, she comes face to face with the very last person she wants to see.

Edward Masen stands with one hand raised, like he is about to knock. His green eyes flicker down to her. He seems confused for a moment as he sees the look on her face. Then his gaze lower, following the line of her neck to the swell of her cleavage and the shimmering dress. His countenance is suddenly closed and unreadable.

Bella pushes past him roughly. She feels tears welling in her eyes and wipes them quickly with one hand, picking up her hem with the other. Without a backward glance, she runs out of the office, down the staircase, and out into the moors.

* * *

Please remember to leave the author some love. If you believe you know the author's identity, please refrain from mentioning this in your review, as it could lead to disqualification. Thank you, and happy reading. x


End file.
